


the art of correspondance

by seditonem



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 03:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1536587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seditonem/pseuds/seditonem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Apollo writes love haikus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the art of correspondance

**Author's Note:**

> i think this was one of my favourite pairings, mainly because i always wanted a boyfriend with a nice car. give me a nice car over an engagement ring any day (if we break up i'll crash it).

Hermes doesn't make grand entrances, not like some sun gods he could mention. He slips in quietly, slips out even more quietly, and goes about his business, whispering the occasional bright idea into a mortal’s ear. Packages to deliver, messages to send - he is a purveyor of love, of hate, of death and of life. Correspondence is a beautiful thing, really, he thinks. One word can break a kingdom’s back. One word can save billions.   
  
 _There's a message for you on your private address_ , Martha whispers. Hermes frowns - he's not due to see Zeus any time soon - and checks his inbox.   
  
 _Google Mail - Inbox (1) - wingedmessenger@gmail.com_  
  
"Oh, no, he  _didn't_ ," Hermes sighs, almost wailing. Not today - not on his fucking  _birthday_.   
  
 _Yes, he did,_  George comments, and sometimes Hermes really doesn’t like having such ever-present friends.  
  
Still, he opens it on the Blackberry, almost dreading what's inside.   
  


> Caro – 
> 
> Hermes, let's just fuck  
> It's your birthday you know  
> Now get in my pants.

  
  
The sun god used to call him silly things, small things, like puer, ragazzo, or kid, none of which Hermes really minded at the time - there are worse things to be called ( _thief, son of a whore_ ) – but then this happened. This, which is evidently something different. A new level, one he’s not sure he’s comfortable with. In his relationships with humans, he’s always the instigator.   
  
Now he’s on the receiving end, he sort of understands why there are so many myths about women getting raped by gods. Getting attention from beings of immense power is a little scary.  
  
Hermes accidentally-on-purpose throws the Blackberry into the Thames and leaves London at super-speed. It’s fine, he’ll get an iPhone in Paris while he’s visiting Artemis.   
  
✉  
  
Of course, Apollo isn't deterred when Hermes doesn't reply - in fact, it only seems to make things worse. There's a massive party in Olympus in the evening, which Hermes drags himself to, and indeed the first person to greet him is Apollo.  
  
Apollo, who never understood that public displays of affection weren't exactly Hermes' area of expertise. Apollo, who wraps an arm around Hermes and drags him off at the first opportunity he gets, never mind the many other gods and goddesses and spirits and whatnots who want to wish him happy birthday. Oh, no, Apollo’s never cared much what anyone else thinks. Neither has he ever cared what Hermes thinks – after the first time they’d slept together Apollo seemed to regard him as  _his_ , like property.   
  
"I'm going to label your email address as spam," he threatens, as soon as they’re out of earshot of everyone else, and Apollo snorts with laughter.  
  
"What? Shall I add in "enlarge your penis in 60 days" to make it more like spam?" he asks, pushing Hermes against a wall and using the opportunity to kiss at his neck. His whole body feels heated, warm.   
  
"And I'll change email addresses," Hermes continues, trying not to be swayed.  
  
"As you wish," Apollo shrugs, undoing Hermes' button-down shirt. "Rachel can foresee your new ones for me. I’m very persuasive when I want to be." His grin is what Christians would call pure sin, Hermes thinks with a sigh. No wonder Jesus is so much more popular these days.   
  
"I hate you," he tells Apollo, very seriously.   
  
"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Apollo grins, and kisses him.  
  
"Not in the corridor," Hermes moans, as Apollo gets his hand down the front of his trousers, and the sun god sighs loudly, pulling them through a maze of corridors - not removing his hand, no, that would be asking far too much, obviously - and into a bedroom fit for a king. Or a god.   
  
"Better?" he asks, spreading his arms and falling backwards onto the bed.   
  
"You know I wouldn't be so mad if you hadn't sent me all those rhyming couplets. And sonnets! Zeus knows I  _hate_  sonnets," Hermes sighs.   
  
Apollo pushes himself up onto his elbows. "You're so detrimental about my art. I don't insult the postal service."  
  
"Yes, you do," Hermes replies, hands on his hips.  
  
"That's because they suck, especially in London," Apollo says, bluntly. "Now get on this bed or so help me I'll - "  
  
He's cut off because Hermes kisses him. Countless centuries of this give and take between them, countless stupid love letters that Hermes has to keep in his jacket pockets because really he can't throw them away - none of it matters, none of it matters because Apollo is here and there is nothing left between them, not even air. However much he protests and pretends, not even a god can escape fate. Even if that fate is a ridiculous bordering on narcissistic sexual predator who won’t get the hint that maybe he should stop fucking around with Hermes and tell him what the Hades is going on.   
  
"You're an incurable romantic," Hermes informs him.  
  
"But you love it, so that's ok," Apollo nods, biting down on Hermes' neck. He lets his power flare for a second, burning away their clothes, and then rolls them so Hermes is beneath him, spread out on the bed, his legs wide.   
  
"Shut up," Hermes says, trying not to blush.  
  
"I didn't say anything," Apollo defends himself.  
  
"You were thinking it," Hermes grouches, and then abruptly stops complaining as Apollo pushes one finger slowly into him.  
  
“I was thinking how it’s unlucky we don’t have any lube,” Apollo frowns, and Hermes raises an eyebrow.   
  
“And has that ever stopped you before?” he asks.   
  
Apollo nods. “That’s an excellent point.”   
  
It’s a very good birthday, all things considered, Hermes thinks.   
  
✉  
  
War happens. It’s a fact of life.   
  
War also stops people sending letters.   
  
Hermes’ personal inbox is empty for two years.   
  
 _GoogleMail Inbox – wingedmessenger@gmail.com_    
  
He tries not to think about it. He still has a lot of other people to worry about – it’s not like the world will end if he doesn’t see Apollo for a while. After all, two years is barely a blink of an eye for a god.   
  
 _You have no new messages._  
  
✉  
  
And then, like a dream, it’s over. Like a dream, there is the morning after, the clean-up of the night’s activity, and Hermes does his best, ferrying those who need help, taking messages, delivering packages.   
  
 _GoogleMail Inbox – (1) – wingedmessenger@gmail.com_    
  
His hands shake.   
  
✉  
  
He’s already talking when Apollo opens the door.   
  
“ – and I can’t  _believe_  you have the nerve to just barge back into my life with a  _limerick_  of all things, you ridiculous, egotistical – ” He would say more, probably will say more later on, but he’s kissing Apollo, pushing him back against the wall, his fingers curling through the god’s short hair.   
  
“You were saying?” Apollo asks, amused, but all Hermes can focus on are his lips, kiss-stained red and swollen where he’s bitten them.   
  
“You’re intolerable,” he whispers.   
  
“Look who’s talking,” Apollo smirks, and kicks the door shut as he pulls Hermes’ shirt off.   
  
“Hey, I’m perfectly tolerable, you’re the one who gets credited with plagues,” Hermes sniffs, walking backwards towards Apollo’s bedroom with the sun god’s hands still on his hips.   
  
“I’m the cure and the cause, what more can I say?” grins Apollo, pushing Hermes onto his bed.   
  
“As I said – intolerable,” Hermes sighs.   
  
“Let me show you just how tolerable I can be,” suggests Apollo, burning away Hermes’ clothes with a sudden flare of heat.   
  
“I hate it when you do that,” grumbles Hermes, but then Apollo sucks his fingers, the heat of his mouth almost burning, and presses them gently against his entrance, sitting back.  
  
“Go on,” he whispers, and Hermes flushes. Despite how many times they’ve slept together and touched one another, this never gets old.   
  
“Intolerable,” he mutters, and presses past the first ring of muscle, the tips of his fingers feeling too hot inside him. Apollo has one hand wrapped around Hermes’ ankle, just a reminder that he’s there, and Hermes can feel the warmth of him radiate through his body. He has to sit up slightly to be able to get his fingers in properly, so Apollo’s other hand supports his back, his eyes still intent on Hermes.   
  
The pressure is so unfamiliar – even after such a short time – that Hermes winces, wriggles slightly to avoid the sting, and Apollo kisses his jaw, his eyelids, anywhere he can reach, soothing him with soft noises. Hermes adds another finger, trying to go slow but ending up going too fast, and practically sobs with relief when he touches something that feels good. His other hand clenches on Apollo’s arm and he forces his eyes open.   
  
“Please,” he moans, because it has to be Apollo – it’s been too long, they’ve been too far apart, and it  _has_  to be Apollo.   
  
“Ok,” Apollo whispers, “ok.” He pulls Hermes’ fingers out slowly, kissing the inside of his wrist like he’s hidden treasure being discovered, and settles himself between the messenger god’s thighs. He leaves strings of kisses down the skin of Hermes’ inner thighs, tonguing gently at his balls and then curling his tongue around the tense muscle of his opening. Hermes tightens his fingers on the cover of Apollo’s bed. Eyes shut. Mouth open.   
  
Just feeling.   
  
“Zone out on me, by all means,” grouches Apollo, and slides one finger into Hermes without warning. Hermes gasps, half sitting up, and Apollo grins wickedly and adds another. He presses something that feels incredible, and Hermes’ spine feels like it’s disappeared. He falls back onto the bed, gasping, the incredible heat of Apollo’s body surrounding him.   
  
“Oh, Aphrodite’s going to have to work  _very_  hard to match this,” Apollo moans, removing his fingers. Hermes whines slightly at the lack of pressure, and then Apollo rubs the head of his cock against Hermes’ entrance and kisses him. He presses in slowly.  
  
Breathe in. Breathe out. Hermes’ fingers are wrapped around Apollo’s arms, holding him close. This close, he can see the colour of Apollo’s eyes – golden, like a lion’s eyes. Hot and molten, midday under the Sahara sun. His eyelashes are golden too, and there’s the hint of laugh lines by the corners of his eyes. Apollo usually appears as a teenager for the demigods, but Hermes prefers him like this. He looks sophisticated; someone you’d be equally comfortable going to the opera with, and then dancing till dawn. And then fucking.   
  
Apollo pulls out, slams back in. Hermes can feel his whole body sing with the feeling of it. His heart is thumping in his throat like a rabbit’s back leg against the ground, warning him to breathe. They settle into it, the ancient ritual of give and take between them. Apollo’s eyes fall shut, his hands on Hermes’ hips, guiding him, holding him. Every thrust hits something inside Hermes that makes him tremble, and then Apollo wraps a long-fingered hand around Hermes’ cock and spreads the precome with a shaking hand.   
  
Starbursts don’t burn as bright as their orgasm. Hermes presses his mouth against Apollo’s shoulder to stop himself shouting.   
  
Later, Apollo pokes him in the side, laughing slightly. “You were gonna shout it, weren’t you?” he needles, and Hermes sighs.   
  
“If it helps you sleep at night to think that,” he grins back.   
  
Apollo pulls him closer.   
  
✉  
  
In the morning, nothing is solved. Apollo is gone before dawn, and Hermes has messages to deliver. But things change, like the break from a dream into reality, like dawn to bright sunlight.   
  
That afternoon, Hermes checks his personal inbox.   
  
 _Google Mail Inbox – (25) – wingedmessenger@gmail.com_    
  
✉ end.


End file.
